The Clocksmith

Every Tuesday, two hours before dusk, the old man walked the cobblestone streets of the ancient port city. Though physically familiar to its inhabitants, no one knew his association nor his dwelling. His ritual, when observed by the occasional news boy or laundry maiden, had seemingly no route or rhythm; nor was noticed his disappearance each time on Wicklow. To the townsfolk, he was not in the least bit interesting. He wasn't tall or crippled or even mysterious for that matter. He wasn't far removed from a wandering litter thrown down by some ported sailor.

Though the city was commonly bombarded with packs of "thirsty" shipmen, it was not well policed and crime, not of the serious type, was rampant. Drunken pub brawls, teenage vandalism, and petty thefts occupied the larger of the police workload. It was, oddly enough, one of these misdemeanors that led to the unlocking of the city's most horrifying secret. 

While responding to a report of pick pocketing on the town's much maligned west side, a nearly retired and heavily weathered law officer turned his horse right, onto Wicklow. Already perturbed by the disturbance so near the end of shift, the shadows that engulfed the street before him strained his old eyes and the last of his patience. 

No description of the pick pocket had been relayed by the victim. Only that a gold watch had been taken from a gentleman's coat side. Of course, rarely are descriptions of pick pockets available as that is the point of their art. This did not mean however that there was no hope for recovery. This particular officer knew the face of every pick pocket within fifty miles and the local magistrate was well known for prosecuting these Picassos on circumstantial evidence. Such evidence would include being found anywhere within five blocks of a reported theft.

As the hired horse moved casually down Wicklow, the officer spotted a man standing suspiciously in the middle of the street. There were no others on this street and nor was there reason to be, no matter the time of day. As the officer drew close he realized that the man was not facing him but rather had his back turned completely. "Sir!", the officer snorted in a gruff, accusatory tone, "Sir, turn 'round". The man now stood fifty feet from the horse's nostril and even were he deaf, would have felt the vibrations of the horse's steel-clad footsteps. Yet he did not move.

"Sir!", the officer belted while his horse spooked beneath him, "Sir, turn 'round!". The man continued to stand lifeless as the officer's horse became increasingly uneasy now refusing to move within ten feet of the man before him in the street. Realizing his efforts to move the horse forward were useless, the officer begrudgingly dismounted and took three furious steps toward his target when suddenly, but with calm and control, the man in the street began to turn. Clockwise over his right shoulder he strained his neck, smiled to his ear and spoke. "I'm sorry my good man but I've found your watch.", said the man in a frail yet still masculine tone. The officer, confused by the man's words, was now overcome by a feeling foreign to him. Terror.

Though the man in the street had shown no aggression, the officer could not help but feel overwhelmed by his presence. So much so, in fact, he found himself frozen and speechless. Then, without so much as a desperate final gasp, the officer clutched his left arm and wilted onto the cool stones below him, the temperature of which, he was too dead to feel. 

As the last rays of light left the city and the sun sank completely into the western ocean, the scene on Wicklow was one familiar to the small trees and street lamps of which it was lined. Yet to the young man who watched it all play out from a service alley nearby, it had changed everything.